He’d been sitting there so long his ass was hurting. He also
needed to go to the bathroom, but was afraid if he left his post in the lobby, he’d miss his chance to talk to her. So he had spent the last three and a
half hours flipping through every magazine on offer and even read the entire
coffee table book in front of him. The lengthy wait almost made him forget his
nerves.
“Who the hell writes a book the history of an insurance
company?” he thought, but then he needed something to take his mind off the
meeting. Turns out it was started by a farmer in the 1930s. They’d started a
cooperative to pool their money for crop insurance. Now, 80 years later it was
a global corporation. Demutualized was the term they used in the book, meaning
it was owned by shareholders on the public market today and not a group of
hayseed farmers from Manitoba.
He got up to walk around and tried to straighten the creases
that were making his suit look older than it actually was. It hung on his thin, bony frame a bit like a poncho - maybe two sizes too big in the shoulders and tailored for a man 40 pounds heavier around the middle. He'd have taken the jacket off, but it hid the ridiculous way he had to cinch up his oversized pants. The lobby was
well appointed, but not overly so. The walls were faux wood and were hung with
various Prairie farm landscape paintings recalling the company’s early days. Behind the receptionist were multiple clocks showing the correct local times in
London, Toronto, Vancouver, Sydney, New Dehli and, of course, home base in
Winnipeg.
After making several jerky circles of the room, he couldn’t wait
any longer and strolled up to the receptionist who had been steadfastly
ignoring him for the entire morning.
“Hi again,” he said. She forced a smile. “Could you tell me
where the men’s room is?”
“Oh,” she paused, looked down at a piece of paper on her
desk, then tapped the end of her pencil against a writing pad for a few
seconds.
“It’s just I’ve been waiting all morning and…”
“Yes, right. Well, you see the washrooms up here are off
limits to the public, but you’re welcome to use the ones downstairs at the
Starbucks.” She smiled broadly. “They don’t mind.”
“Oh, um, okay. Will you please tell Ms. Stromberg I’ll be
right back?”
“Certainly. I’ll tell her.”
And so he took the elevator down and crossed
the foyer to the coffee shop.
Worried that he’d miss her, he hurried about his business,
barely drying his hands so they were still wet to the touch when he stepped
back towards the elevators.
And there she was. Or at least the back of her, heading out
the door. He could tell at an instant and ran after her.
“Ms. Stromberg! Ms. Stromberg! Wait!” he called as she
marched down the sidewalk in her crisp blue skirt and jacket. She wore a
perfect white blouse topped with a brilliant silk scarf around her neck. The
clothes fit her thin, angular frame perfectly.
“Yes? Who are you?” she said just as he reached his wet hands to touch her hand. They both pulled back and she tipped her sunglasses down
her nose at the young man
“Um, well, I’m your…” he stopped with his mouth open.
“Yes? You’re my what?”
“Your son.” he blurted.
Her eyes took him all in: the terrible suit, the wrinkled shirt
and dusty sneakers, the shaved head. She slid her sunglasses back into place
and walked away at the same pace and purpose as she had before.
“Wait! You don’t know how far I’ve come to see you!”
“I don’t care. Someone put you up to this. Now go away or I’ll
call the police.”
